


Sherlock is an earthquake.

by sephswriting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221back, Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Angst, Deviates From Canon, FIx It, Fix Fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, John Finds out Sherlock is alive, John Needs A Hug, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reunion, Sherlock Lives, i didn't like the way Sherlock was reunited with John, so i rewrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephswriting/pseuds/sephswriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has caused a tsunami.</p><p>"If John was listening he would have heard Mrs Hudson travel downstairs. He would have heard the door open, and then a deepish voice and a squeak from Mrs Hudson. He would have heard gentle whispers, shuffling feet, long breaths. He would have heard the heavier creaks, the slightly shaky familiar creaks that tailed Mrs Hudson's footsteps. But John wasn't listening."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock is an earthquake.

The flat was cold. It was the sort of cold that gets to you, gets to your brain and makes all your thoughts cold too. The weather was bleak and the flat was cold and Sherlock was dead. Happy birthday John.

Mrs Hudson had laid out all of John's birthday cards on the table like trophies. Well done John, you made it through another year, and a pretty shit one at that. None of the cards said that of course, but he received more than usual and they all seemed to send their love. Their condolences. Sherlock was dead, and you aren't supposed to think about that sort of thing on your birthday. John did anyway.

John was sat down when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it, love" called Mrs Hudson from the kitchen. She pulled off her washing up gloves, resting them on the side of the sink. The fingertips entertained the water. One glove sunk down, the other floated just above the surface. Mrs Hudson didn't have to find a dry pair; she didn't finish the washing up that day.

If John was listening he would have heard Mrs Hudson travel downstairs. He would have heard the door open, and then a deepish voice and a squeak from Mrs Hudson. He would have heard gentle whispers, shuffling feet, long breaths. He would have heard the heavier creaks, the slightly shaky familiar creaks that tailed Mrs Hudson's footsteps. But John wasn't listening.

Sherlock was at the doorway. John didn't look up, he was playing with his hands like a nervous patient. Mrs Hudson walked over to him, took one of his hands and said gently but not quietly, "John". John looked up at her, before following her gaze to his friend standing in the doorway.

John swallowed something imaginary. He began to stand up shakily, gripping Mrs Hudson tighter for support. He coughed without a tickle in his throat. He was standing now, firm and strong, but his head was shaking and his fingers opened and closed around Mrs Hudson's palm, pulsing.

 "I don't understand" 

The words fell out of his mouth. His eyes began to hurt from the staring and the shaking but he kept his eyes fixed as though otherwise Sherlock would disappear. 

"John, It's okay."

John held Mrs. Hudson tight. "No. No you're dead. I saw you fall and I know you're dead so just stop this. Stop this right now." He spoke in something like a whisper, but it was darker and filled with more hurt.

"John. John dear you're hurting me."

"John could you let go of my hand a bit please." 

"Please John"

John gripped tighter.

"John, let go of Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock said, John not quite ready for his imperative. John didn't take orders. His eyes narrowed slightly, trapping Sherlock in his gaze. He slowly let go of Mrs Hudson. "I'll.. I'll make some tea" She said as she stumbled to the kitchen.

"John I know this is a shock but you've got to stay calm. You're safe, we're all safe, and that's all that matters."

"But you were dead" John breathed. "You're dead, how can you be here." There was a hint of ungratefulness in John's voice, as though Sherlock being alive was a inconvenience. He needed to escape the confusion, to break through the wall of hurt that Sherlock had so carefully built.

"How Sherlock?"

Sherlock was silent, unaware this question was not rhetorical.

"Sherlock." John said in a voice Sherlock mistook for calm. John's left hand was shaking like an earthquake and there was a storm in his eyes.

Earthquakes are terrible things you see. They cause gas leaks, explosions, injuries, unquantifiable deaths. They destroy houses and communications, and leave people lost, broken and alone. But tsunamis are worse. Sherlock is an earthquake, and he's caused a tsunami.

" _Sherlock!_ " John shouted, the shock sudden, causing Mrs Hudson to drop the tea bag back into the mug, the boiling water splashing her hand. Today is not her day, she thinks. But today is not John's day either, and it isn't Sherlock's. It is no one's day, because the universe doesn't decide who to be kind to. The universe is lazy.

"I never died John" Sherlock stated. Judging by the fact he was currently talking to John, he thought this was quite obvious. It was obvious to John too, but he just wanted to hear Sherlock say it.

"I'm alive John. I came back."

"Why." John questioned, although it was more of a command.

"Why did I come back?"

"No, why did you die."

"I didn't... die John?"

John narrowed his eyes again. There was rain in his eyes, a quiet rain, the sort you get before a downpour. I should be clear, he wasn't crying. He was raining. He was preparing for the storm.

"Sherlock..." He whispered. "Why."

"Moriarty was going to kill you. And Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson. The world had to think I was dead."

"I'm not the world Sherlock. I'm your best friend"

John of course, was the world to Sherlock. Not in a twee fairytale way;  Sherlock doesn't have many friends, and since they met they had barely been apart. The words "I'd be lost without my blogger" rung in John's ears, taunting and teasing. Was Sherlock lost? Something selfish swam in John's mind. He hoped so.

***

For four days John would not touch Sherlock. He would not speak to him, he simply watched and observed him. He crept around him as though he were asleep, and any sudden movement would wake him. John kept his distance, like a child with a pinkish bite mark staying away from next door's dog. John had been bitten before.

On the fifth day John cried. He sat next to Sherlock, leaving a cushion between them, and he cried into his hands. Then, without looking at Sherlock's uncomfortable and confused (yet not alarmed) expression, he crept back into his room and spent the sixth day alone.

The seventh day was different. Sherlock was sat speaking with Mrs Hudson on the sofa when John sat next to him. There was no cushion barrier, just a cup of tea in John's hands. The heat seeped through the mug and began to burn him, but he held it tight. It was something to focus on. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock continued speaking, the topics falling away slightly and the speech filled with more fillers than before, as the two pretended not to notice John's development. John didn't notice. He placed his mug down slowly on the floor next to his feet, the coffee table left mug-less for unknown reasons. And then John touched him. Only slightly, but as John's hand fell deliberately to his side it brushed Sherlock's knee, evoking a chain reaction of fingers to fabric to knee to the somatic sensory system before finally a reaction was evoked. The tiniest smile on Sherlock's lips. It was virtually undetectable but it filled the room. The conversation was getting hollow now, but it didn't matter. John touched Sherlock, and Sherlock was real.

The next day John spoke to Sherlock. He said " Sherlock... Did you want any tea?". Sherlock replied "hm, please". John never made the tea, but that didn't matter.

The next week was a combination of gently brushing past Sherlock, offering him small favours, asking tiny questions, and sitting and watching. Sherlock didn't mind, he saw that John was trying and to him that was enough.

 John felt more comfortable when Mrs Hudson was at the flat. He never said it, but whenever she spoke to Sherlock John would sit a little closer, ask a little louder, smile a little stronger. She provided a distraction for Sherlock, so he wouldn't notice John's spouts of bravery. Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, but Sherlock didn't find it stupid that John thought he had found him a distraction. He found it endearing, and didn't spoil it.

One night John was brave. He was either tired or brave, Sherlock thought brave and John didn't like to think about it. One night John touched Sherlock, in a real way, a deliberate and strong and brave way. He breathed heavily, turning the handle on Sherlock's door and opening the door wide, allowing some light from the front room to take away the dark. "Sherlock..." said John. "John?" said Sherlock.

"Sherlock could you come out of bed for a second please."

Sherlock complied, pushing away the duvet and moving over to sit on the edge of his bed. John felt like a child needing comfort after a bad dream, because in a way he was. He slowly reached his hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock, still sat on the bed, reached his hand out to meet john's, brushing fingertips on fingertips and feeling a breeze between thumbs. John slid his hand in further, holding Sherlock's a little tighter now. Sherlock gripped back, and began to get up from his bed. He was standing in front of John now, with his hand in his. It was like the start of a handshake, except it was warmer and motionless, and John was neither saying hello nor goodbye. He was saying I love you and I loved you and I want you to love me too but things have changed and everything hurts and I haven't felt love in so long, not proper love, it has been a crippling love that whispers you can never, ever, be loved back. Because you were dead Sherlock, you were dead and I was alone and it was miserable, all of it, truly miserable. Wasn't it Sherlock? And when I say I love you I mean it in an "I will always protect you" sort of way, and I will try, I'll really try but I've been bad at that in the past haven't I Sherlock? But I'm a soldier, you know? I fight for things. Well... I'm a doctor, but that works even better because I treat people, I fix them. I can fix myself and I can be better, and then maybe you won't have to leave me again.

He didn't say any of this out loud of course. He didn't need to.

"It's okay" said Sherlock. But John kept holding on for a while longer, just to be sure.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first proper fanfic, I hope you liked it :) feedback would be lovely, also please let me know if you think I should write more chapters! Thank you :)
> 
> Edit: I'm a bit stuck on what to write about for the next chapter, so if you have any ideas please let me know and I'll make sure to credit you if I use yours :)


End file.
